"I've heard…"
Tom ignored Borgin's ever-changing expressions, idly rubbing his fingers together.
"Mr. Borgin's shop doesn't just deal in goods. You also dabble in intelligence... and certain off-the-record commissions, don't you?"
Credit where it's due—he had to thank that seventh-year prefect, Siswell Borgin. If the guy hadn't accidentally let things slip during a conversation, Tom wouldn't have drawn up his entire plan in advance. He'd made the decision early: this holiday would be spent entirely around Borgin and Burkes.
Working as a mercenary here wasn't just about earning gold; it was real-world combat experience—killing two birds with one stone. The only thing that made Tom a little uneasy…
Was that Voldemort had worked here too, once upon a time.
That thought made Tom's gaze instinctively flick toward the vanishing cabinet tucked away in the corner.
He'd have to find a way to get his hands on it. How could he allow such a dangerous portal to just sit there, waiting for someone to use it to breach Hogwarts' back door?
Borgin studied the Michael-disguised Tom with a deep, measuring look.
"Seems like you came on a friend's recommendation…"
After all, not just anyone knew about Borgin's intelligence network and freelance operations. Only wizards he approved of—ones with skill and discretion—ever caught wind of such things.
His curiosity about Tom's real identity grew deeper, but he wasn't stupid enough to start digging.
Tom smiled coolly. "Then, in honor of that mutual friend, give me a few jobs. Short-term, nearby, high payout."
"What about difficulty?" Borgin asked.
"Difficulty?" Tom smirked. "As long as you're not asking me to assassinate Dumbledore, anything else is all the same to me."
What an ego!
Borgin was stunned. He could clearly sense that bold, unwavering confidence—so brazen it bordered on arrogance. To this guy, aside from Dumbledore, no one was worth considering.
But Tom wasn't just talking big. Worst-case scenario? He'd have Andros cover for him—five minutes was more than enough to resolve anything.
"As it happens," Borgin's practiced smile returned, "there is a particularly tricky commission. I've been debating whether to take it… but since you seem so confident, why don't you give it a try?"
"What's the job?" Tom asked with genuine curiosity.
Borgin pulled out a sheet of silver paper.
"One of my longtime clients, Mr. Rouse, has gotten himself into trouble. He's currently being hunted by International Aurors. The commission: help him escape the UK. The reward is 1,000 Galleons."
International Aurors?
Tom blinked.
This was no petty mission.
The International Confederation of Wizards was the largest and most influential wizarding organization in the world. Every magical government was a member. While the Confederation didn't meddle in domestic affairs, it had its own military enforcement branch that could override borders and carry out cross-country arrests.
If someone was being hunted by them, they had to be one hell of a character.
Tom's curiosity was piqued. "Mind telling me what exactly Mr. Rouse did?"
Borgin sighed. "He made a mistake… one all men are prone to. He slept with the wrong woman."
"And that woman was…?"
"The wife of the International Auror Department's Deputy Minister."
Tom: "…"
So this was what happened when a man couldn't keep it in his pants—led around by his 'little wand' until his whole life went up in flames.
Still, Tom decided to take the job. Rouse didn't seem like some depraved Dark wizard; more like a guy caught in a tragic romance. Tom had a soft spot for star-crossed lovers. He couldn't bear to watch fate stomp all over people's hearts.
"I'll take it. How's the payment work—will the client give it to me, or you? And how do I find him?"
Borgin pushed the silver slip across the counter. "The gold is already deposited in an unmarked Gringotts vault. Once Rouse is safely out of the UK, your mission's considered complete. I'll send you the vault number and password then."
"Burn this silver paper and it'll portkey you close to the client. Move fast—I doubt he can hold out much longer."
Tom nodded, picked up the paper, and left.
From Knockturn Alley to Diagon Alley, out through the Leaky Cauldron, he flagged a cab and rode back to Wool's Orphanage. There, he stashed his own wand and headed to Seth's room, retrieving a Tom Cat mask and strapping it onto his face.
He wasn't done using "Michael" yet. Couldn't afford to blow the disguise on this mission.
As the silver paper burned, Tom felt an invisible hook latch onto his bellybutton. His feet lifted off the ground, and he was swept forward through a torrent of icy wind. The landscape blurred around him—shapes and colors streaking past—until it all melted into a blinding white light.
He didn't know how long he flew, but eventually, he was yanked from that speeding state by an overwhelming magical resistance. His feet landed roughly on the forest floor.
It was dense woodland. Where, exactly, he couldn't say—probably a county somewhere north of London. He was still in England, that was certain.
He glanced at the silver paper. Just a corner remained unburned.
So, he hadn't reached the exact location. Some kind of anti-Apparition and portkey ward had intercepted him.
Still, he couldn't be far. From deep within the forest, he could hear explosions and the high-pitched crackle of spells tearing through the air.
After casting a Feather Light Charm on himself, Tom sprinted toward the sounds of battle.
He didn't have to run long before he found the scene.
Three male wizards were ganging up on another man. Off to the side stood a female Auror, clearly covering the perimeter.
Tom didn't rush in. First, he took a good look at the man under siege.
Frankly? He wasn't much to look at. Not particularly handsome. Short, stocky build—maybe 5'9" at most. Probably shorter than Lady Greengrass herself.
This guy? This guy was the one sleeping with the Deputy Minister's wife?
Tom couldn't help but doubt whether he had the right man.
Rouse, meanwhile, was barely holding on. He was flinging counter-curses in desperation, and the alchemical trinkets on his robes were glowing one after another—magical items used for combat. Expensive ones.
The attackers had spotted Tom. The female Auror, clearly the most relaxed among them, raised her wand defensively and shouted,
"International Auror business. Step away, this has nothing to do with you!"
Tom ignored her.
Instead, he called out to the embattled man:
"Mr. Rouse, is that you?"
"Yes! That's me!" the man yelled, ducking another curse. "You with the old guy? Man! You're a lifesaver!"
Reinforcements?!
The Aurors instantly grew wary. Sensing the shift, Tom didn't hesitate—he whipped up his wand and launched several spells.
The three Aurors, already on alert, quickly cast Shield Charms to block his assault. But their offensive had been disrupted.
"Friends," Tom said calmly, striding into the clearing, "do me a favor. Let Mr. Rouse leave Britain in peace."
Rouse quickly backed toward Tom. But when they were still about twenty paces apart, Tom raised a hand to stop him.
In this line of work, rule number one: Never trust anyone.
Not even the client.
A pudgy wizard, gasping for breath, glared at Tom with undisguised hostility.
"You want to end up a fugitive like him, wizard? Turn around now, and I'll pretend you were never here."
Tom sighed. "I really hate to mess with law enforcement… but Mr. Rouse is paying far too well."
"That's the spirit, bro!" Rouse shouted from behind a smokescreen of spells. "I love a man who values money above all else!"
There was no more room for words. Once Tom made his position clear, the four Aurors sprang into action without hesitation.
Streaks of red light—like laser beams—cut through the thick forest mist.
The female Auror, originally on support duty, moved to engage Tom, while the other three stayed locked onto Rouse.
Tom casually flicked his wand and deflected her first spell.
"That's it?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "You're an Auror?"
Compared to Snape's attacks, this was child's play—so weak, in fact, that Tom had unconsciously used too much power. His return spell overshot and didn't follow the precise arc he'd planned, missing the other Aurors entirely.
"Are you insulting me?!" the female Auror roared.
She had expected a duel, not verbal abuse!
"I'm just stating facts."
Tom responded with several more spells. She tried to mimic his earlier deflection—but misjudged the force.
Boom.
The explosion sent her flying, her body lifting into the air before slamming hard onto the forest floor. A follow-up Stunning Charm whizzed toward her before she could recover.
She barely managed to roll out of the way, landing awkwardly and casting a clumsy retaliatory curse mid-roll.
Tom tilted his head, letting the red light whistle past, then turned his wand on a nearby tree.
With a sharp upward motion, the massive oak was yanked from the ground and hurled toward her.
"Confringo!" shouted a male Auror, leaping in to help. The uprooted tree exploded into splinters midair.
The tide had turned. Tom's power was clearly no joke, and they couldn't afford to fight him one-on-one.
The four Aurors converged on him, leaving Rouse momentarily unattended.
Though relieved of pressure, Rouse wasn't about to flee just yet. The anti-Apparition wards were still active, and he had tracking charms all over him.
If Tom lost, running now wouldn't make a difference.
Better to catch his breath, restore a bit of magical stamina… maybe lend a hand later.
Tom, however, had no intention of giving him the chance.
After probing for a while, he came to a surprising conclusion:
These four were... weak. Really weak.
Had Snape lied to him?
These so-called Aurors—were they even qualified?
What Tom didn't know was this: people's definitions of "acceptable" vary wildly.
For someone like Snape, anything below a 90 was a failure. For others, a 50 was enough to throw a celebration.
The same held true for Aurors.
Snape's standard was based on elites like Kingsley Shacklebolt—battle-hardened, lethal, and legendary.
These four? Barely out of training. The oldest wasn't even thirty.
"It ends here."
Tom, now confident he had drastically overestimated his opponents, stopped holding back.
The same glowing orb from his duel with Snape formed above his head once more.
It launched a searing crimson beam toward the female Auror.
"Protego Maxima!"
The wave of power shattered her shield like glass. She was thrown backwards again—this time not getting up.
The beam twisted midair like a whip, slashing toward the remaining three.
This was one of the high-level spells taught to Tom by Andros—pure, compressed magic, manipulated by will alone.
No flashy incantations, no gimmicks.
Pure destructive force.
Even Snape had been envious, offering several of his self-created spells in exchange to learn it.
Tom had declined.
"Individual power matters. No amount of teamwork can make up for trash foundations."
Within 2.5 seconds, the remaining three Aurors were done.
Tom casually disarmed them, snatching their wands from midair like some collector at a wand bazaar.
Rouse stared, slack-jawed, at the unconscious bodies of the International Aurors.
Then at Tom, who now had a bouquet of stolen wands in hand.
Where the hell had that old dog Borgin found this monster?
The guy just soloed an entire Auror squad like it was a warm-up!
"Damn, bro—you're a beast!" Rouse rushed over, grinning like an idiot.
Tom gave him a sideways glance. "You're white. Why do you talk like you're from the West Coast?"
"You know the West Coast?!" Rouse's eyes lit up, like he'd found a kindred spirit.
"I learned from Muggle rappers! How's my flow, huh?"
"Lacking. No rhythm. No soul."
"Aww, man. Still gotta keep grinding, huh."
Rouse sighed, then noticed Tom's wand still raised and aimed.
"Uh, hey, bro. We're done, right? No need to kill anyone. They were just doing their job, yeah?"
Tom tilted his head and looked at him like he was nuts.
"I'd have to be insane to kill International Aurors.
Even if you wanted to kill them, I'd stop you."
He snorted.
"For a thousand Galleons, you want me to start a blood feud with the entire International Confederation of Wizards?"
"Who's the crazy one here—you or me?"
Rouse opened his mouth, then closed it.
Yeah, fair enough. Maybe he was pushing his luck.